Broken Silences
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Post-ep for "Wonderland Story," including references and possible spoilers through 15x5: Olivia reaches out. Rating for language. E/O


References and spoilers: "Smoked," "Internal Affairs," "Wonderland Story" (including here in my author's note, so if you haven't seen through WS and don't want to be spoiled, do not read on)

A/N: I'm sure I can't be the only one who was giddily awaiting the retirement party in hopes that a certain blue-eyed former detective would make an appearance... and if you have chosen to read an E/O fic more than two years after Meloni ended his contract, I'm equally sure I'm not the only one who was utterly disappointed at a certain former detective's notable absence from said party. And so, I humbly offer you this post-ep. Maudlin and OOC as it may be, hopefully it can begin to make amends. All constructive comments welcome.

And the obligatory disclaimer: these characters are so not mine.

* * *

"Broken Silences"

_You broke his heart._

She didn't know why, of all the things she could have said, she chose that one. But it was three a.m., and Brian was back in the bedroom, doing that curious thing where he _didn't_ snore, and she still hadn't learned how to not reach for her phone when she missed him even more than the night was long. It had been almost two-and-a-half years—twenty-eight months, really, if anyone was counting—since she had seen him or talked to him. Since he had returned a phone call. Answered a text.

She didn't know why, of all the messages she had tapped out over those one-hundred-twenty-one weeks—those eight-hundred-forty-eight long, long nights—she thought this one might bring anything more than continued silence. But it had been since before Lewis that she had last texted him, and her interrogation of Officer Quinn was still fresh in her mind, and maybe she was sensitive about how much personal experience she had drawn from during that interview. Maybe she needed proof that she wasn't Quinn. That he wasn't West. She had Brian now, and that validated her. Didn't it? Maybe she sent that text to prove herself right: she didn't need a response because she hadn't wasted her prime, pining away for an untouchable man. She had never been dumb enough to think he would ever see her differently. She had never been dumb enough to think that he would ever talk to her again once the pretext of work was gone.

Eleven minutes later, the hammering of her heart betrayed her as she stared at the glowing screen of her phone. _I'm downstairs_.

She hesitated, unsure of what to say after twenty-eight months. After twenty-thousand, three-hundred-sixty-one hours. Three years ago, she wouldn't have had to say anything; she would have put on a hoodie and dropped down the stairs in four minutes flat to meet him on the stoop. But that was then. This was now.

_No you're not_. It seemed like the only reasonable response.

_Try me_. It was quick. Like he was waiting for her to fight him on it. Like, after all this time, he knew he deserved her resistance.

There was a long pause. She felt guilty or something. Suddenly, she wasn't Quinn for an entirely different reason: because her West had finally—_finally_—come for her, in the middle of the night, without even the hint of work to justify his visit. Only she wasn't there anymore. Because she had given up on him. She had stopped waiting. She had finally moved on. With Brian. _I moved_, she wrote at last.

_Try me_, chirped the phone again. She thought it was a duplicate message, or one that he'd had waiting for whatever her next excuse was. She gave him time to rewrite and send another. Another never came.

_Really. I moved._ To be clear, in case he didn't understand.

_Liv, just come down._

She didn't want to. She didn't want that sick feeling in her stomach when she saw the empty stoop and had to face the fact that he had gone to her old place, that he was waiting there for her, that he would never know that she had conceded and gone to meet him—because he would be waiting for the old glass door to open onto the stoop where he was sitting, and it never would.

_I'm waiting_.

She took a breath and then another. Then, with firm resolve, before she could talk herself out of it, she put on a pair of sneakers and a hoodie from the hall closet and headed out the door. She was crying even before she reached the stairs at the end of their floor, but she would walk the fourteen blocks back to her old place if she had to. She couldn't kid herself anymore; she needed him like she needed air, and she had just begun to drown.

Blinded by tears, hood up and head down, she pushed forcefully through the front door of her new building. As she descended the steps, she felt a tug on her elbow, and she wheeled around in self-defense, only to be stopped in place by a familiar rumble: "Where ya goin'?"

Mouth agape, she wiped her eyes and looked up at the person who still held her arm. She must be dreaming. Hallucinating. Something. She couldn't speak. All she could do was reach for him with both hands. She palmed his cheek—he _felt_ real, the stubble on his face rough against her skin. Her fingertips traced the shell of his ear, scratched through his short hair. One hand slid down his neck, her thumb smoothing over his chin, then trailing down to his collarbone. He watched her eyes the entire time.

In an instant, her arms were around him, clamping him against her. "Oh my god," she breathed into his jacket, near tears again. He returned her embrace, holding her securely. She held onto him until her breathing evened out. Forty-five seconds turned into sixty. One minute turned into three. She clutched him tighter. She sobbed. Three turned into seven, into ten, into twelve. He squeezed his eyes shut and held her, held her. One minute for every year of partnership. She clung to him. Twelve rolled into thirteen, into sixteen, into twenty-one. Years they would never have. Her arms ached from the strain of the embrace.

He rocked her gently, side to side. He kissed her temple, nuzzled her ear. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She gave him one last squeeze and then let go. They shivered when they parted. He sat first—on the stoop at four in the morning, like no time had passed.

"Munch retired," she said as casually as she could manage, wiping away the last of her tears with her knuckles.

"I heard," he grunted. "Whose, uh, heart did I break exactly, hm? His or Cap's?"

She barked a laugh, her breath a sudden burst of steam, and he grinned down at his own shoes. And then, softly: "We all missed you."

"I didn't think I could take it," he said quietly.

"Saying goodbye? Yeah, you seem to have a problem with that," she said, trying and failing to cover the ice in her tone.

"Seeing people," he corrected, ignoring the bitter comment. "Seeing _certain_ people."

She finally dropped down next to him. "Like who?"

He shrugged, looked out towards the street. "You, for one."

"You're seeing me now," she pointed out.

"I didn't know if you wanted me at Munch's thing—"

"It wasn't about me, Elliot—"

"It's always about you," he mumbled.

She didn't know how to take that, so she let it sit. Another more important question had come to mind: "What're you doing here?"

He sniffed, unable to meet her eye. "Couldn't sleep."

"I mean _here_."

He shrugged again, shook his head. "It had been months since I'd heard from you—"

"I'm surprised you noticed," she huffed.

"Liv, you and me..." He trailed off, gazed out to the street again. "It's bigger than the job. And I'm always..." He cleared his throat and shook his head, unable or unwilling to continue.

"How'd you find me, is what I want to know."

He cocked a grin but didn't look at her. "I'm a detective, remember?"

"Then why? Why look? If the thought of being near me is so damn hard—" She needed answers, and the ones he'd given weren't enough.

He stilled, and it was enough to get her attention. "I, um, heard about that guy. That guy Lewis."

"Elliot—"

"No," he insisted, taking her hand, "listen. I shoulda been there. I shoulda had you. It never woulda happened if—"

"Let's not do this—"

"If I'd just _been_ there!" He choked back a sudden sob and intertwined their fingers. She put her other hand on the back of his neck, and he leaned against her. "I'm a fucking coward," he whispered.

She wasn't sure what prompted that, and she was afraid to ask.

"Two years," he continued. "For two whole years, this could have been different. You and me. Us."

"Hey," she soothed, "I would have done the same thing as you. Any of us would have. IA cleared you." She was grasping at straws, assuming he was still feeling guilty over the precinct shooting twenty-eight months earlier.

He drew back slightly, wet his lips. "Not that," he croaked. "Me and Kathy. It's been over for two full years. And I should have done something then—I should have _said_ something—I should've... something. And we'd've been..." he trailed off and growled from the frustration of being unable to say it. "And it wouldn't be fucking _Cassidy_ up there, and you wouldn't be awake right now, and none of that bullshit this summer would've happened because I never woulda left your fucking side." His one hand gripped hers more tightly, and the other, trembling, went to cover his face. "Not for a minute," he choked.

She stared at him in utter disbelief.

Under his hand, he shook his head slightly. "I was angry when I heard—of course I was angry—but I was terrified even more. More than I've ever been my whole life. More than the day Eli was born." He drew her hand to his chest. "So I _had_ to find you. Make sure you were okay."

"I'm getting there," she whispered, not that he asked.

He nodded, swallowed another sob. "Is he good for you?" he asked in a tiny voice she'd never heard before. "Cassidy?"

She closed her eyes, took a breath and tried to lie. She couldn't. Instead, her lip quivered and she leaned into her old partner. "He'll never be you," she confessed.

He pulled her hand to his mouth. "I love you," he murmured against it. She pulled her hand out of his and gripped his chin, turning his face to hers.

"I've missed you," she told him, resting her forehead against his.

She shivered again in the moment before his lips met hers. It was the slowest kiss he had ever started; for her, the most tender. Forty-five seconds turned into sixty. One minute turned into three.

"Don't ever leave," she breathed into him. Three turned into seven, into ten, into twelve.

"Never," he agreed.


End file.
